


I'll Be A Whisper On the Wind

by tastethewaste



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Self-Hatred, there's john reid kissing in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-12 05:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20988125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastethewaste/pseuds/tastethewaste
Summary: Elton knows he's a hard person to love, and when John leaves him he knows no one will ever love him again.





	I'll Be A Whisper On the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> So before we begin, I have to say that I do not in any way, shape or form ship John Reid/Elton. Their relationship is abusive and toxic. This fic was born/inspired from a set of lyrics from the Mumford and Sons song '42' (lyrics at the beginning of the fic) and made me think about what Elton's head space might have been like when John broke up with him. This isn't meant to be taken as a romantic look at John and Elton but rather how Elton's self esteem is so low that he thinks no one else will ever love him. Thank you for reading :)

_ **But what if I need you in my darkest hour?  
And what if it turns out there is no other?** _

It was 12:30 a.m. and the rain was beating on the windows and the wind was howling and Elton was drunk.

He was no stranger to the drink and the drugs, having become a connoisseur over the last few years of anything and everything. The cocaine brought him up, made him happy, helped him feel _something_ good. Pot brought him down, leveled him out, made him mellow. He had a small arsenal of pills at his disposal for any number of needs, that scratched a dozen itches. As time had marched on, drugs had become less of a recreational activity and more of a...daily activity, and the same went for the booze. He’d gone from drinking to celebrate a killer show to mixing a carefully crafted cocktail to start his day and stop the shakes, and he tried not to think about what that meant. 

So though he wasn’t a stranger to drinking by any means, he didn’t get _drunk_ very often. He drank to keep himself level, to maintain, the way he needed a line or two before a show to get going or a few pills to bring himself down afterwards. When he wanted to get fucked up, he went for any of his other vices, and for good reason.

Alcohol brought him down, _way_ down, further than he liked to go. It all started out fine as the first few shots dulled the sharp edges of his brain and made everything fuzzy. If he kept going, kept drinking, he usually had about an hour or two of what he’d affectionately termed the ‘feel goods’, where he’d be happy and listening to music and even _writing_ some music that was usually shit, but still, he was writing it.

Then, as it went on, his fuzzy brain would turn on him. His drunk self was unkind, yelling at him all the things his sober brain was usually not so bold as to explicitly state, replaying old memories that he had painfully tried to shove away by drinking in the first place. Booze made him _sad_, made him want to die. Some of his darkest moments had come from scotch-laced evenings. He’d usually end up on the bathroom floor, vomit crusted on the sides of his mouth as he sobbed, begging for whatever God was up there to just _please if you’re up there take me because I don’t want to fucking be alive anymore_.

He was a messy drunk. 

And yet, despite knowing all of this, he’d found himself cracking open a bottle of whiskey, flopping unceremoniously down on his sofa, and throwing himself a right fine pity party for the night.

He drank straight from the bottle, not bothering with ice or a rocks glass and _certainly_ not with a mixer, letting the warm liquor tumble down his throat and coat his empty stomach. He put on a record, not paying attention to what it was, and sank back onto his sofa. As the alcohol began to course through his blood, he felt his face flush, his heartbeat quicken, and a slow, stupid smile ease its way onto his face. 

He spent the next hour and a half sifting through records, drunkenly playing the piano and warbling along with his eyes half-closed and his voice trembling. Once he’d finished his own private concert, he settled down in his den, clicking on the television and zoning out on something stupid that he couldn’t quite make out. 

He drank more, the thick glass bottle clumsily clashing against his teeth. Time started to slip as the images on the television screen in front of him began to blur, and then he was there. At that place. He could almost feel a dark cloud descending over his brain, blanketing the ridges and grooves with alcohol and sadness. _Title of my memoir, Alcohol and Sadness,_ he thought to himself with a dry, mirthless chuckle. 

He stared out the window at the rain, coming down in sheets and pounding against the roof. _That’s what my brain feels like,_ he thought dourly, taking the final swig from the bottle. He pounded his fist against the side of his head, gently, then not-so-gently. He pushed himself up from the sofa and stared at himself in the large, silver mirror hanging on the wall. He studied his face, his receding hairline, the gap between his teeth. He criticized the bags under his eyes, the lines on his forehead, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. _You’re a mess, a hideous mess,_ he told himself, waves of revulsion at his appearance rolling through his body. 

He looked away from himself in the mirror and his eyes lit on the picture frame on the mantle, an expensive one that held a photo of himself and John on vacation in Nice. It was his favorite of the two of them, a candid shot taken by Bernie early on in their relationship. He was looking off into the distance at something, who bloody knew what, a huge, sloppy smile on his face. John, however, was looking right at him, a soft smile on his face, looking contemplative and utterly fascinated. He looked as though he was drinking in the very essence of Elton, and it had always given him goosebumps to look at. He looked down at his arms, and sure enough, tiny bumps had risen there. He never felt more loved than he did when he looked at this photo. He trailed a finger across the frame, a thin layer of dust coming off. 

John had unceremoniously kicked him to the curb almost two weeks ago. He’d lost track of John at an after party, and when he’d arrived home, almost too fucked up to stand, he’d found him there. John had been standing in the foyer, surrounded by expensive Italian luggage packed with his expensive Italian shoes, and he’d told Elton that it was over. Enough was enough. 

He shuddered to remember their conversation, cringed to remember the way he’d begged. If he closed his eyes he could still feel the cool marble flooring underneath his knees as he’d groveled at John’s feet. He had no humility. His body ached with how much he _needed_ John, and he hadn’t been above begging. 

“Please don’t go,” he’d slurred, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a ball of emotions. Tears had streamed down his face, snot mixing with them as he sobbed. “Don’t leave me.” 

John’s face had been impassive, and to look at him, you’d have thought it was someone entirely different than the cherished picture on Elton’s mantle. “You know it’s over, and I know it’s over. There’s nothing left here but our business relationship. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” 

He’d begged and pleaded and shouted a million things that made his pride shrivel up and disappear, but in the end, John had stood strong, gathered his suitcases in his hands and left, his only goodbye a cold, dry kiss on Elton’s flushed cheek. 

Now here he was, a couple of weeks later, drunk and sad and sloppy and finally allowing himself to think what he had been shoving down for so long: _no one will ever love me besides John._

Elton knew how _difficult_ he was to love, knew what a handful of a human being he was. He was messy, and emotional, and broken, and for some reason, John had decided he could handle that. _I should’ve taken more care with us, with John. I shouldn’t have taken it for granted. Because John is the only one who could ever love someone so fucked up._

His head began to feel heavy, and the one small part of his brain that was still functioning properly screamed at him to stop as he picked up the phone. _You will regret this._ He punched in the numbers that were familiar to him and listened as the line rang. 

“John,” he whispered quietly when the other man answered the phone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of the heavy front door slamming brought Elton out of the drunken sleep he’d fallen into after their conversation. He didn’t remember calling John, and so the sight of his former lover in front of him, dressed impeccably, as always, was surprising. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice thick and his words dripping with the after effects of the alcohol.

“I don’t know, Elton. What _am_ I doing here?” John asked, coldly. Elton swallowed nervously and chewed on his bottom lip. 

“I’m glad you are,” he said, trying to smile. John took a few steps closer to him. 

“You called and you said you needed me, but this looks like a pretty familiar scene,” John said, gesturing to the messy room, the empty bottles and the pills. “You seem fine.” 

“I’m not fine,” Elton said quietly, his eyes, full of tears, cast downward. “I’m not.” When he looked up, John was in front of him, crouching down, studying his face. “I need you. You’re the only one who…” 

Then John’s lips were on his, and Elton’s mouth was open, and it was like it was before. His heart started to hammer in his chest and he pushed his whole body into John’s, letting passion take over as he brought his hand around to the back of John’s neck. This was _good_, this was _right_, they could fix everything, they _could_...

And then it was over. John pulled away, stood up, straightened his tie. Elton fell forward, just slightly, the loss of the heat from John’s body and his tongue from his mouth leaving an ache and a hole in him that felt like a chasm. He touched his lips gently, almost assuring himself that they were there, that that had been real. 

“We can’t do this, Elton. I won’t do this anymore,” John said, his voice just as cold as before. 

“You’re the only one for me, John. No one else loves me like you do,” Elton said, his voice almost a low whine. 

“I don’t love you anymore,” John said, and it was simple and matter-of-fact. He didn’t love him anymore, and that was that. He said it like the words didn’t tear into Elton’s very being, as if he was remarking on the weather or a restaurant’s menu. He said it like it was something he was used to thinking, and Elton realized that that was probably true. 

“Oh,” Elton said, and his response was lame and useless and empty, just like he felt about himself. There was a few minutes of silence between them.

“Don’t call me again like this,” John said. “Do you understand?” 

Elton nodded, and watched as John spun on his expensive shoes and exited the house. The slam of the front door echoed, much as it had when John had come in. 

Elton scrambled for a couple of the miscellaneous pills that littered the room and downed them, desperate for anything to numb this moment. 

_I should’ve known he’d leave eventually, everyone does,_ he thought, staring out at the rain that was slapping on the windows. _Everyone does._


End file.
